


Dancer in the Dark

by michelleisat



Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: F/M, Meet-Cute, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelleisat/pseuds/michelleisat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because I saw Jimin dance and wondered what he would be like as a one-night stand. There is no other excuse for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancer in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This goes out to my fellow noona Jiminnie fans. I hope you know we’re all going straight to hell. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Out-of-character fanfiction is usually my pet peeve. I wanted to write this out of character though. Well, not so much out of character as without any reference to Jimin’s real personality. I wrote this fic to capture what I thought about him when I first saw him [dance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9y6qxTVbOQ). Yes, almost 4,000 words from watching a guy dance. I need help. 
> 
> I took some liberties with the facts to make this story work. For one, I gave Jimin a childhood in America so he would know how to speak English with my narrator. Apologies for butchering Jimin all round. Like I said, I wanted to capture the impression of him his dancing gave me.
> 
> P.S. Spot the cameo by Suga!

Someone bumped into me; something wet spilt down my leg. I now had a stain on my jeans, an empty cup, and a piece of my mind to give.

I turned round to say something, but the person who bumped into me was already apologising profusely. Or at least, that’s what I gathered from his body language. I couldn’t — still can’t — understand Korean.

He had a pathetic look on his face. My anger died in my throat.

“I don’t understand Korean. But it’s alright. This looks like an accident.” I said, trying to be reassuring while frowning at how illogical I was. It’s funny how we persist in speaking to people who can’t understand us.

“Oh! I’m so glad you understand! I mean, I don’t mean understand Korean,” He waved his hands about. “I mean understand … You know what I mean.” He still seemed anxious.

I was surprised to hear him speak English. I told him so.

“Well, yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his head.

“Most people here don’t, at least not fluently. And you don’t have an accent.”

“You mean I don’t have a Korean accent. I do have an accent. American. I grew up there.”

“Ah, I see.”

Silence. Rapidly growing awkward.

“What I was trying to say!” he said, suddenly, waving his hands again. I had to jump back to avoid getting hit. “Is, could I get you another drink, please? It’s the least I could do.”

“It’s cool, bro. You didn’t mean it.”

“NO,” he said, eyes going very wide. “I insist. It’s even worse if you’re a visitor.” He hailed the bartender before I could say anything. He ordered the drink, then turned back to me and said, “I still feel bad though, ‘cos your jeans are stained.”

“I know how you can make it up to me.” I brightened. I love chatting with locals when I travel. “Tell me about Seoul. Where can I go? Do you know Seoul anyway?” I stopped. “Sorry. Just remembered you didn't grow up here."

“I live here now, so I do.” He took a sip of his drink. “Where can you go? Well, that depends, doesn’t it? What do you like to do?”

“I like watching performances.”

“Performances?”

“Like theatre. Or comedy. Or dance.”

“PERFECT!” a voice behind my jeans-ruiner-turned-tour-guide boomed. I hadn’t even noticed its owner before. “Our dance machine here is performing tomorrow.” The owner of the voice — I assumed it was his friend — gave him a boisterous clap on the back.

From the look on his face, I suspected it was more boisterous than he appreciated.

“You dance?” I said.

Jeans-Ruiner-turned-Tour-Guide-turned-Dance-Machine looked shy. He scratched the back of his head. I noticed he did that when he was nervous.

“Yeah … ”

“And how good are you?” I asked (ignoring a cry of, “THE BEST!” from behind him).

“I’m okay,” he said, as his friend grabbed him by the shoulders and yelled, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN JUST OKAY?”

I grinned at how uncomfortable he looked and pulled out my phone.

“Guys,” I typed. “I got us plans for tomorrow night.”

\---

That’s how I found myself in a foreign skate park, sitting amidst a crowd at least eight years younger than I.

“At least ten,” one of my friends complained. “I think I saw a girl wobbling her milk teeth.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said. “Just be grateful I got us a slice of life here.”

I checked my phone for event details. According to Jimin (I had finally gotten his name), his item was up next. He and his enthusiastic friend were part of a group called the “Bangtan Boys”.

“Sounds like the Backstreet Boys,” I’d said to my friend, snickering.

But then Jimin started dancing. He was impressive. And … slightly intimidating. He was aggressive, athletic, assured; in complete control of himself and the stage.

“Wow. I thought you said this guy was two pills short of an anxiety problem,” my friend said.

“Yeah,” I said. “He was.”

\---

The dance was over. I felt my feet hurry towards the side of the stage of their own will. Some girls were already there waiting for him. He appeared and chatted with them, then saw me. He excused himself.

“You came.” He smiled. “Was it worth adding to your itinerary?”

“Was it! You were amazing! Your friend was right, you are a dance machine.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.

“I try my best,” he said in a small voice, smiling at the ground.

I laughed. This boy — he really was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. To put him at ease I turned the conversation to the dance scene in Korea. He happily indulged my questions. I could tell he loved dancing. He told me that he discovered popping and locking as a kid. When he reached high school, he decided to major in contemporary dance.

“Do you want to be a dancer?”

“Is the sky blue?” he scoffed. “Of course!”

“It’s a tough life with an early career end. Unless you can choreograph.”

“I’m learning to do that too,” he said with a determined set in his mouth. “How do you know about dancing professionally anyways?”

“I used to dance, but I was never good.”

“Really?” He grinned. “I’d like to see your moves.”

I almost laughed. What moves? But it was a fun request, and I knew the song the group onstage was performing to. I grooved to the music.

“Not bad, you’ve got rhythm.”

“Yeah, but that’s about all I’ve got.”

“What do you mean? Rhythm is everything in dance. Everything.” He looked deadly earnest. I’d never had anyone speak to me so seriously about dancing in my life.

“No, silly,” I said, looking away, a bit taken aback by his sudden intensity. “I can freestyle, but I can’t follow choreography. That’s really difficult for me. My body has its own ideas about how it should move to the music. If a movement is foreign to my body, I can’t do it and make it look natural. And when I can’t do that, I can’t go one level deeper and express what the choreography wants to express.”

I looked back at Jimin. He was just staring at me, as if he expected me to continue. His whole body was wired and he had come forward into my space. He was not moving an inch. This was making me nervous.

“Because it’s not just steps, you know?” I continued, hesitantly. “It’s feeling. I can’t stand not being able to show — show that root of dance. At least when I freestyle, I can get directly to the feeling. I'd rather show that than all the fancy steps in the world.”

Jimin frowned at me for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, he said, “You can’t follow choreography? That's so lame compared to what you just said. You understand dance. I know from the way you move and the way you talk about it. You understand as well as the best I’ve met.”

I could feel my face heat up. That was high praise, coming from him. Also, I was still under his microscope. It was a stressful place to be. “I can’t. I was barely good enough to stay in my dance ensemble. I understand dance, but I can’t do it.” I felt disappointed. I always did when I remembered this fact.

“Don’t let me hear you say that again.”

I was peeved to hear someone I’d just met speak to me so sternly. "Say what?"

“That you can’t dance. Dancing isn’t just following choreography. What you just did, that’s dancing.”

“Well, however you want to define it,” I said. I was flattered, but I thought my point still stood. “The only dance-y thing I can do for sure is hit the clubs. There it’s only the music and what you want to do with it, you know?”

Jimin laughed. The corners of his eyes crinkled. The tension in the air seemed to dissipate.

“I know you can hit the clubs.” He gave me a sly grin. “Would you say you've had your fill of clubbing in Seoul?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He looked up at the sky with an exaggeratedly innocent expression. “The night is still young.” Then he looked back at me. There was something nervous and hopeful in his eyes that made my heart quicken.

“Let’s go,” I said, before I had time to think. What was happening?

Glee shot across Jimin’s face. “Now?”

“Now!”

“Okay!” he chirped. He grabbed me by the forearm and ran towards our friends, all but dancing.

\---

I got in the cab first. Jimin barrelled in behind me with our friends bringing up the rear. There were more people in the cab than it was supposed to hold. But the driver didn’t say anything, and so we didn’t either.

I was squashed between Jimin and the door. When the taxi turned, Jimin canted towards me with an exaggerated, “Whoa!” One time he leaned on my shoulder and looked at me through his bangs, eyes twinkling. Another time, he let himself fall into my lap. I pressed myself (relatively) shyly into his side when the cab turned the other way. He was all warm muscle, and I wondered what it would be like to have his hands on me.

When I slid out of the cab, he was at the door — both hands extended towards me, that dazzling smile on his face.

\---

We sauntered out onto the dance floor after our drinks. Or at least, we tried to saunter, jostling out paths for ourselves in the crowd.

“It’s hard to be cool in crowded places,” he shouted into my ear.

We were both elbowed by an enthusiastic partygoer. I winced and rubbed my side.

“Don’t know about you, but I’m cool anywhere.” I paused. “Even with this look on my face.”

Jimin laughed. His eyes curved up into crescents. I’d read on Wikitravel that the Koreans called that an “eyesmile”. That made so much sense. Why didn’t the Chinese have a concept like that? I was Chinese. I’d never heard of the thing. But weren’t our eyes the same? Why had I never noticed this adorable thing on people back home?

“Sassy. And a bit silly. I like,” he said, snapping me out of my train of thought.

I was about to say something like, “You, and most people,” but my blabbermouth was cut off by him yanking me close.

I must have had a look somewhere between surprise and horror on my face, because he said, “Oops, too fast?” His hand on the small of my back loosened. I felt like I had room to breathe.

“A little.”

“It’s okay,” he said. He took a step backwards and began dancing on his own, smiling encouragingly at me.

Even in that small space, he was a marvel. He seemed to know exactly where to place each limb, how to shift his weight so he was always balanced. He was gangly for a dancer, but muscular at the same time. I was confused till I realised he was actually slight, but had such little bodyfat his muscles popped. He was fairly short too — much shorter than he looked onstage — but he was lean, and it made him look tall.

He was wearing b-ball gear, with a snapback pulled sideways over his head. He had a long undershirt on beneath his black jersey, so there was a border of white at his hips. It popped whenever he body-waved or jerked his hips. I wondered if it was intentional.

Of course it was. When you’re a performer, every detail is intentional. From the smallest half-step to the way you held your fingers.

“You seem distracted,” he said. “You ain’t groovin’ like you used to.”

“Of course I’m distracted, I’m looking at you.”

He smiled and shied away from me. I couldn’t see if he was blushing in this light. I loved this side of his personality.

“You ain’t groovin’ like you used to. Is that from a song?” I said.

“Not that I know of.” He looked even more bashful.

“I wanna say it’s from a song. Not like Flo-rida or anything. Something classic.”

“Whitney Houston?”

I don’t think I could’ve looked more surprised than I felt.

“How young are you? I meant James Brown classic.” I was incredulous. Jimin looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him.

It was really bugging me, that song. I was sure I could place it.

“Weren’t you shy just a minute ago?” Jimin protested. “I was gonna let you relax a little, but now I think I preferred — ”

“Shhh,” I said, putting my finger on his lips. “I almost got it … it’s just on the edge of my mind … ”

The dubstep horror booming around me was distracting. But I’d got it now, I’d definitely got it.

“I used to go out to parties, and dance around … ”

“HAH!” Jimin exploded, pointing at me and almost poking my eye out. My God, this boy and his mood swings. He smirked and crossed his arms. “Wrong.”

“How do you know? I sang ONE line!”

“My favourite song.” He was still smirking, arms still crossed. It was hot. “Try me.”

“‘Cos I was too nervous, to really get down … ”

“But my body,” Jimin sang. His voice was surprisingly high and pure. “Yearned to be free.” And beautiful, I decided.

“So I got up on the floor, na-na, so somebody could choose me.”

“There are two times the word ‘groovin” appears in this song,” Jimin segued. “The first one goes like this: ‘As long as you’re groovin’, there’s always a chance.' ”

"That somebody watchin’ might wanna make romance.”

“Exactly. Now you find the second one.”

I couldn’t. It wasn’t fair; he took the easy one. I sang all the lines under my breath till I found it.

“Everybody’s groovin’ on like a fool.”

“But if you see me, spread out and let me in.” He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously at me. I laughed and took his hand. I didn’t know if he meant what I thought he meant; and if he did, he was just greasy. I had no idea why I found it charming.

I turned and backed into his arms. I put the hand I was holding across my body, on my waist. I took his other arm and wrapped it around me too. Then I grinded against him. He felt good; strong and steady.

“Maybe I should’ve tried that line the first time.” His breath warmed my ear.

“Maybe,” I said, turning my face round to him. “Who knows what would’ve happened by now?”

There is that moment — the one before every kiss — that is just like the moment a baller hangs at the top of his jump shot before releasing the ball from his hands.

Then, we were kissing.

He was not the best kiss I’d ever had. But my knees were going weak anyway.

I twisted round in his arms to face him. His neck was wet with sweat; the soft hair at its nape was damp. He pulled me in closer and slid his thigh between my legs. He nudged my head backwards and trailed kisses down my neck. I was forced to straddle him and cling onto his shoulders for balance. I grinded against his leg and dug my fingers into his back when he nipped my neck with his teeth. I thought I might soak right through my panties onto his shorts.

He made a noise and tipped me back against a wall, shoving an unfortunate partygoer aside. One of my legs was picked up and hooked around him. He looked into my eyes for awhile, then kissed me again, pushing me right into the wall. He grinded his hips against me as we kissed. I heard myself moaning. It occurred to me, vaguely, that I was in a public place. But I didn’t care.

My hands had found their way under his jersey. He broke our kiss and reached round his back to catch them.

“Before clothes start coming off in the middle of the dance floor,” he said. “Your place or mine?”

“I don’t have a place. I’m a tourist, remember? There are five other people in my hostel room. Two of them I don’t even know.”

“Great,” he huffed. “This is what I get for using a cheesy line.”

I felt a stupid grin spread over my face. It really was one of Jimin’s many marvels, to be so badass and so silly at the same time.

We got out of the club, arms linked and giggling like teenagers. I hailed a cab, and we piled in.

“Do you have condoms?” I whispered urgently.

He looked offended. “What do you take me for?” he said. It was his turn to be incredulous. I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

I frowned at him. “What? Don’t you do this often?”

“No!”

I wasn’t sure what to say. I was sure he was lying. But I was also disinclined to argue.

“Take it as a compliment.” I pasted on my sweetest smile and tugged his arm. “Let’s stop at 7-11. You’re sweet and all, but I don’t think I’m ready to have your babies.”

\---

Jimin’s place was dark. Not that I noticed when I stumbled in back-first, sucking his face with all my might. It only really hit me when the frame of a bunk bed did. In the head.

“Oh fuck!” Jimin said. “I’m so sorry!”

“You hate me,” I said, lying back in the bunk and holding my head. The world was spinning. “First you spill a drink down my pants. Then you knock my head into a piece of metal. You actually hate me.”

“I’m so sorry.” I could hear panic in his voice, and I felt guilty for being deadpan. Maybe the child was as innocent as he claimed. He ran his fingers through my hair and cradled my head where it hurt. “Are you okay, baby?”

I felt a terrible warmth in my stomach. He was leaning over me and massaging my scalp, his breath falling in puffs over my face. I wanted to burrow into him and never come out.

“I am when you do that.” My voice came out stupidly high-pitched and content, and I couldn’t believe what I said.

He seemed pleased though, and ran his thumb along my lower lip before kissing me, slowly and sweetly. Maybe we could do without the condoms. Maybe I was ready to have his babies. Maybe after this we could pick names for our grandchildren.

As we kissed he took me by the legs and pulled me into a more comfortable position on his bed, following after me. He positioned himself between my legs, but all we did is kiss for a long while. As we found a rhythm his kisses got better. I wrapped my legs around him slowly and firmly, not because I was horny, but just because I wanted him close. He ran his fingers through my hair and traced circles on my neck.

***

It was morning, and we were having the proverbial morning-after chat. We were having cereal and milk — so, nothing out of the ordinary — but the conversation was.

“It’s too early to discuss economics,” Jimin groaned, pouring milk over his cereal.

“It’s already 9am,” I said. “I offered to let you sleep in.”

He had no quick reply to that. “I couldn’t let you fix breakfast and leave by yourself,” he finally muttered. “You’re my guest.”

I felt a beaming smile spread over my face. So lovely, this boy. “So you’re saying kids here generally live with their parents?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. I could tell he was not a morning person. “Rent is high and we’re Asian. You should understand.”

“I do. It’s the same back home,” I said. “So why don’t you?”

Jimin froze. He literally did — spoon positioned between bowl and mouth, a globe of milky cereal wobbling in it. Oh no, I thought. Here comes tense Jimin again.

“Some people do,” he said, after what seemed like an eternity. “But my friends and I don’t.”

You could hear the crunching and slurping of cereal in the silence after that. I sighed inwardly. I thought this was one guy I could avoid the usual awkwardness with.

“So where are your friends?” I said, trying to make some conversation. Any conversation.

“Mmm?” he said, looking up at me through his bangs, mouth still closed over his spoon. He swallowed his cereal. “Oh. They cleared out ‘cos they knew you were coming over. We have that arrangement.”

“All six of them? The whole night?”

“Yup. They probably just stayed out all night together.”

“Wow. That’s true friendship.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Like I said, this doesn’t happen often. We’re not allowed.” Jimin’s eyes popped wide the moment his last word left his mouth. They darted around the room in a panic. Then he looked back down at his cereal and seemed determined to get through it as quickly as possible.

I thought this very strange. He said he didn’t live with his parents, so who was not allowing him? Why did he seem to regret revealing this fact?

I looked around the room, following the direction of Jimin’s frantic survey earlier. I hadn’t stopped to think about it, but it was a strange place. The bedroom, for one. There were bunk beds there for seven. Which was unusual — I would’ve thought that friends renting a place would get their own rooms, or at least share in pairs. Okay, maybe rent was crazy high. Sure then. But the furnishings and walls were spare, spartan almost. It didn’t seem to gel with a gang of teenage boys as cool and flashy as Jimin and his friends seemed to be.

And they had to be “allowed”. They must be living here under the auspices of some organisation, I thought. Military? A shelter for troubled youth? Jimin didn’t seem too troubled. Then again, he had secrets and an almost-split personality.

Ay papi. This was giving me the creeps. I, too, was suddenly determined to get through my cereal as quickly as possible.

After breakfast, we gave each other one last, chaste kiss before saying goodbye. I looked at him fondly. I was still disturbed by his living situation, but he had been so kind to me. What we talked about escapes me now. The thing I remember, though, is his laugh as the morning sun lit his face. It tinkled like bells.

I visited all the places he recommended, and at the end of my trip, I flew back home. I never heard from him again. It was as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope I didn’t butcher the idol training system either. I know a predebut group wouldn’t perform at a skate park. Oh well. I’m just going to claim artistic license. *scuttles away*
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
